


It's a little place down the hill

by tragicamente



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slow Build, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicamente/pseuds/tragicamente
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they kill the yellow-eyed demon, Sam and Dean take some time to recuperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a little place down the hill

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after season one of SPN, originally posted on LJ before I deleted my writing journal there.

After the yellow-eyed demon died, guts flying, blood drying in small specks on Dean’s face – it was silent. For a whole minute, there was almost nothing. Just his and his brother’s own harsh breathing in their ears - and then all hell broke loose. Demons pouring out from a hole in the wall like frat boys discovering a cellar filled with alcohol. They whooped with glee, spreading wings and claws and flicking their tongues. They didn’t even notice Sam and Dean as they ran past them, out onto the streets of New York, people screaming in their wake.

”Shit.” Was all Dean seemed to manage, as he reloaded his gun, _come on Sammy_ – a clap on the shoulder and then he was aiming for the hole in the wall, the swirling vortex of blackness that sent the reek of sulphur into the room. Sam swung into action suddenly, as if he’d been pushed from behind and he was salting the doors and the windows and trying to shoot some angry spirits all at the same time. Dean was murmuring something in Latin, and he swore because the symbol they’d sketched on the wall was in the wrong place and Dean was trying to draw it again while reading from the battered book open in his palm. Except it seemed that suddenly all the demons in the room noticed he was there and all Sam could think was _no, look at me you bastards._ He was shouting, because there was something dark and sharp and it was making it’s way to Dean’s back.

Sam saw the splash of blood hit the floor, heard Dean gurgle the final few words of the spell through a mouth full of liquid and then there was that silence again. A silence so profound that when the roaring _whoosh_ and howling of hundreds of demons being sucked back into hell started up it was like becoming deaf from too much sound. You couldn’t distinguish one sound from the next and Sam was crawling to Dean’s side, not paying attention to the hole that was gurgling and sucking and closing up dragging a fierce, winged lizard type demon, one of the first to come out, back in. 

“Dean. _Dean_ \- ” and Sam’s not sure how to breathe because there is so much blood. 

“ _Sammy_ , are you okay? – is it closed?” and to hear Dean’s voice makes Sam laugh, almost hysterically as he cradles his brother’s head in his lap, _yeah, yeah, hold on, will you? Don’t slip, Dean, don’t close your eyes, listen to me, Dean –_

-

Dean floats in and out of consciousness for days. The hospital people try to ask questions but Sam won’t leave Dean’s side because every time he wakes he calls his name and Sam has to be there. He has to hold his hand, gripping his fingers to make sure Dean _feels_ and knows that he’s there. He’s there and he isn’t going anywhere and that he’s sorry. So very sorry.

-

Dean is feverish for a few days, shivering and flushed and Sam is right beside him. He calls out for him and he keeps repeating things _I can’t feel you, Sam, I can’t feel you_ so Sam climbs into the bed next to him. Tries to still the quaking of his limbs with his own, feels Dean’s ragged breath brush against his lips and it is stupid, but he’s so scared right now that he starts to sing to Dean. Well, hum not sing, but he hums Metallica to his brother who calms down slightly and says “ _Real nice, Sammy.”_ and who kisses him, ever so lightly and it’s weird. Not weird in the way Sam thought it would be weird, but weird because it feels so normal, feels like they’ve been doing it the whole time. Sam tells himself it’s the fever, just the fever making Dean act this way but he’s got no excuse for the rapid increase in his heart rate and the longing in him to do it again.

-

Sam isn’t very good at dealing with an ill Dean, and Dean isn’t very good at being ill.

“Quit hovering and just sit the fuck down already.”

Sam obliges, folding his hands in his lap. The doctor - cropped brown hair, white suit, Martin or something – raises his eyebrows slightly but continues going through minor things: blood pressure, Dean’s condition etc, how to change bandages and so forth.

When the doctor tells him that he can take Dean home, Dean mutters _finally, thank god,_ and Sam wonders _what home?_ Because he doesn’t want to take Dean to Bobby’s and he doesn’t want to go to the Roadhouse – the reasons for which he doesn’t want to look at too closely right now, so he decides to drive them to a place they used to go to in the summer. It’s a quaint little cabin, two rooms, a porch with one of those swings and a view to a lake. He remembers it being one of those big, fuck-off lakes that stretch on for miles and Sam remembers wondering if he’d ever be able to see the other side and it being an important thing to him when he was younger. Now it doesn’t look so big anymore, and at this time of year the water is kind of grey and Sam can only think of Dean. Dean who looks so much smaller than he used to but who still shrugs Sam off, pain guarded, _I can walk all on my own, Sam, I’m a big boy._

Sam lets Dean get himself to the bedroom, watching him all the while as he goes up the couple of steps and fiddles with the lock on the door. When he’s out of view Sam is about to follow instinctively, but a movement catches his eye and he turns to see a bird dip into the water.

It comes back up empty-handed, water dripping off its wings. _Bad luck_ , Sam thinks, grabbing the two duffel bags from the back of the car and making his way inside. It is February and the place is cold, Dean’s already lying down on the bed, gun next to him – Sam notes it’s freshly polished – and staring at the ceiling. He looks like he did when he was twelve and had just come back from skinning his first rabbit - _it looked so bare_ – he had said, eyes sad. Didn’t stop him from making rabbit stew that evening or catching more the next day, but Sam always remembers how sad he’d looked, and remembers being amazed at how well he’d shoved down that feeling. Sam leans in the doorway, drops the duffel bags and stares at him.

“What?” Dean says, gruffly, still staring at the ceiling.

“Nothing.” Sam moves away before he does something stupid, like say what he really wants to - _don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you_ \- or just touch him. He finds he’s been wanting to do that a lot more recently, just reach out and run his fingers along the muscles in Dean’s back –just to make sure he’s still there. But something holds him back. He’s still just a little bit scared: scared of letting Dean burrow into him, scared of what he feels and what he’ll do and loving with this much intensity. Scared of not being loved back.

-

When Sam wakes up the next day, dragging himself out of dreams of darkness and death, he glances over at Dean’s bed and the empty expanse of sheets sends a jolt of panic right through to his toes. He gets up too quickly, blood rushing around his eyes, to stumble into the next room. Dean is making breakfast and as the smell wafts over to him of bacon and eggs Sam feels like he’s seven years old again. 

“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be resting.”

Dean turns round, a smile on his face and that smile reaches out to Sam, clutches at his heart.

“Morning.”

Sam mutters under his breath, continues to act annoyed because Dean is supposed to be resting, healing, getting back to what he was. But he has to admit that the breakfast is really good, and Dean always knew how he liked his eggs so Sam pretends not to notice when Dean stumbles slightly while getting into his seat. He pretends not to notice but as soon as the food is eaten he springs up, offering to clean up and Dean looks at him kind of surprised and kind of irritated.

“Since you did the cooking.” Sam says and Dean looks slightly mollified. It scares him how aware of Dean he is, how he can feel Dean’s eyes on his back and know the way he’s sitting and his mind travels to the image of the muscle hidden in his jeans, the line in his wrist and a plate slips from his grip as he realises in horror what it is he’s doing.

Dean is beside him at once. “Jesus, thought I was supposed to be the ill one here.”

Sam smiles at him, “Yeah, well, got to make you feel important somehow”, Dean swipes at the back of his head but Sam ducks, laughing freely. It feels good, being with Dean like this. Their shoulders bump companionably and it is calm. It’s in this moment, washing dishes together, that Sam realises just how much he loves his brother.

Sam sneaks a sidelong glance at Dean, runs his gaze over the stubble on his cheeks, the pink lips and he remembers that kiss in the hospital. It is terrifying and wonderful.

-

He doesn’t mean to do it, it just kind of comes naturally, but Sam is on the internet and he’s just checked the local headlines and damn. Damn that looks pretty suspicious what with a quick check and, oh look, it has been happening for the past four years now exactly to date. Sam spends a moment looking at the screen, helpless, and Dean has wandered up beside him – is reading over his shoulder before Sam can click the screen down.

“Looks like we got a vengeful spirit on our hands.” Dean says, chewing his bottom lip in thought.

Sam spins round. “No. Not we. Me. I have a vengeful spirit on my hands. You –“ he says, pointing at Dean’s chest, “have resting to do.”

Dean frowns at him. “What?”

“Resting. That means no hunting. No nothing. I’ll do this one on my own.”

Sam realises he shouldn’t have said those last few words because as soon as they are out of his mouth Dean looks antsy, jumpy, worry already creasing his brow.

“Not on your own, Sammy.” Sam rubs his face with his hand, knowing this isn’t going to be too easy.

“Dean –“

“No, Sam. Not on your own. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine! You can barely walk across the room by yourself. Fuck, Dean.”

Sam has stood up now, after his mini outburst he forces his voice to go soft, he’s got a hand on Dean’s shoulder and the other reaches for his mobile phone.

“I’ll be on the phone to you the whole time, okay?”

-  
It took more persuading but Sam is finally in a rented truck, because Dean wouldn’t let him go with ‘his baby’, his cell on the seat next to him. Dean is silent on the other end, still pissed off about the turn of events.

“I can practically here you pouting from here.”

Silence.

“Come on, Dean.”

“Well if you’d just let me come - ” he breaks off. Sam sighs and continues following the road. According to his research it should just be a regular evil spirit, haunting the highway. It was pretty standard stuff. All he’d have to do is find out a bit about it, salt and burn and then he’s off back to Dean. It’s weird, though he won’t admit it aloud, being on a hunt without Dean. He’s never really been the one to hunt alone and it makes him think suddenly of those years when he was away. He can imagine Dean in the Impala, rock music playing, miles and miles of road ahead and behind him. No Dad and no little brother and it almost made him regret his time at Stanford. Almost. 

“You still alive?” Dean says, in a voice that shows clearly he didn’t want to be the first one to speak.

“Yeah, still here.”

Sam can hear Dean huff.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

-

 _Fuck_ , Sam thinks as a crunching sound and a cut-off “Sam!” reaches his ears. He scrabbles back to his feet, hands trying to find a purchase on anything solid or sharp, just something he can hit with. 

The spirit is of a woman, blood dripping from her ears and bones protruding at odd angles from her skin. She is most definitely angry and Sam swings at her with a fallen branch and runs towards where she is buried. Stupid spirit turned up and knocked him over right before he could burn her.

He sprints, dodging roots and stones that could make him trip and he practically throws the lighter into the grave, feels the heat lap at his ankles as the spirit itself bursts into flames. He allows himself a moment of rest before he’s running back to the car, with his phone dead he can’t imagine what Dean might be doing. 

-

He turns into the driveway at illegal speeds to find Dean, fully dressed, gun in hand, trying to get into the Impala. He looks up, anger and worry and relief written all over his features.

“You hid the keys!” Dean shouts, storming over as Sam gets out of the car. “God, I could kill you. Christ.” Dean stops just in front of Sam, checking him over for any injuries, “Christ.” He says again, more softly now. Sam is about to say something when he is suddenly in Dean’s arms and Dean is breathing hard and Sam can only hear the blood rushing in his ears. Slowly, as if trying not to scare a frightened animal, he snakes his arms around Dean.

“I’m okay,” Sam says, “I’m okay.”

-

It’s been a couple of weeks now since they killed the yellow-eyed demon. Dean is practically back to full health and Sam wonders why he isn’t more restless. Sam watches Dean and it’s almost as if he’s enjoying himself. Dean grumbles about it the whole time, being stuck in here, but not in the usual way. Not in the way that makes Sam feel restless too and like they should be out there. Doing something. Instead the words wash over him and Dean stops saying them after a while and they just sit together on the porch, beer in hand, watching.

Sam doesn’t mean to bring it up, or at least he tells himself that, but it’s been eating away at him and he just has to ask.

“Do you think the fact we killed the demon changes the fate he had in store for me?”

It isn’t an entirely out of the blue question. They’ve talked about their hunting before, they’ve talked about the demons left out there – but they just haven’t really spoken about the final battle.

“I mean, what do we do now? Am I still going to turn evil at one moment or the next?”

Dean stiffens, and Sam is sorry that he had to say this, because he knows what it does to him but he just couldn’t keep it in any longer. There is a while before Dean speaks and when he does it’s slow, like he’s weighing every word and tasting it on his tongue. “I don’t know, Sam. Just. You’re a good guy. If you haven’t gone all crazy with all the shit that’s happened recently I don’t see any reason why you should now.”

“I’m still scared, Dean.”

Before the words has escaped his mouth he didn’t realise how much he meant them. Dean turns to face him, eyes dark and unreadable. “It’s not going to happen. Not when I’m around and not ever. You’ve got to trust me.”

Sam nods, takes a swig of his beer and swills it around his mouth. He doesn’t tell Dean of the thing that surged within him when he’d seen Dean lying there, bleeding, dying. Doesn’t want to relive the blackness that seemed to engulf him along with the heart-stopping fear. For a second panic takes hold of him, but Sam wills the memory away, smells the cool, night air and feels that Dean is beside him. Warm, solid and alive.

That should be enough. It should be but he can’t help wanting more, can’t help needing to be in Dean’s space again. Needing to feel his brother’s arms around him, needing to be able to kiss the pulse in his brother’s neck so he can truly know that he’s alive, so that he can be sure Dean isn’t going to just slip away from him – so that he can be sure that Dean knows Sam is alive _for him_. 

Dean gets up, flexing his knees, the porch creaks beneath him. “You coming?”

Sam looks out at the expanse of water before him, watches it ripple with the silent breeze. 

“In a bit.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean says, leaving Sam alone with the insects and beer warming in his hand.

-  
They spend the morning trying to find a good fishing spot because Dean insists he knows how to fish and he looks excited when he says ‘we can have fish for dinner!’ so Sam kind of indulges him carrying the fishing stuff like when they younger. Dean is still terrible at fishing, because when Sam’s around he gets this impulse to talk to him. Little things, just a few words, but he’s never silent for as long as you need to be when finishing. Eventually Sam just throws a couple of rocks in the water, earning a scowl and a ‘hey!’ from his brother but they get to move again. The walk back is pleasant, calming, almost too idyllic and Sam keeps expecting things to jump out at him from the bushes. 

“You getting paranoid?”

Sam stops staring at a tree he swears had maybe moved and feels embarrassed. Maybe he is getting paranoid, and he tries to let himself enjoy the moment. The impulse to grab Dean’s hand runs through him but his hands are full with fishing gear and it would be silly. They’re not children anymore.

They end up going to the nearby store to get their dinner. Not fish but some kind of meat that was half price. Sam ends up trying to cook it with Dean hovering around him adding salt and green things until it’s finally all ready. Everything is running along normally, so Sam doesn’t even realise he’s got a hand on Dean’s thigh until he feels Dean tense and he brings it back to him like he’s been scalded. Dean doesn’t say anything and did Sam just imagine that fleeting look of longing pass along his features? Or was he just projecting his own feelings onto his brother?

“Dean, you okay?”

Dean looks up from his food, still chewing, “Yeah, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

But he’s shifted slightly further away and he’s got this closed, guarded look that always comes after a moment of intimacy. 

Sam wonders if Dean’s just afraid to let them get too close, if Dean is feeling the same way he’s feeling and the thought thrills him. It thrills him and gives him adrenaline and he pushes the warning voice to the back of his head.

He drags his seat forward and places both hands firmly on Dean’s legs.

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean says, dropping the fork to his plate. 

“You never let me in, you’re so fucking closed off that sometimes it’s like I don’t even know you. And how ridiculous does that sound? Because we’re Sam and Dean and I even know how you get freckles on your toes.” 

Dean doesn’t say anything, his hands twitch and Sam sees the restraint there. His heart flutters and he leans forward, he kisses him, softly and he memorises the feel of his lips because he wants to know _everything_ there is to know about his brother. Dean doesn’t move but he parts his lips slightly, responding before he pushes Sam away, turning his back on him. 

”Fuck, Sam.” 

Dean is breathing heavily, and Sam notices how carefully he’s keeping his groin out of view. 

“Yeah –“ Sam whispers, coming up behind him and draping his arms around his shoulders.

“Don’t.” Dean says but it is a weak protest, nothing like what Sam knows he can muster into an order. “Sam, please don’t, I won’t be able to - ”

“What? Stop yourself?” Sam finishes for him, arms now firmly wrapped around his chest. He can feel the rhythmic beating of their hearts and the smell of Dean is overwhelming. Dean nods, once, looking broken and beaten and Sam realises that maybe it’s been this secret that’s been crippling him. Not the fact that he might have to kill him – but what it means to him that he can’t – what it shows about just how much Dean cares about him.

“I don’t want you to.” Sam drops a kiss to Dean’s neck, the hair is soft there and tickles his nose, his skin is warm and inviting. Dean turns in Sam’s arms, looking up and “I’m sorry,” Dean says and Sam is about to say _for what?_ But then Dean kisses him and Sam thinks _Oh_. It’s like he’s flying, like he can’t feel his feet anymore and there is nothing around him but air and Dean and he starts to shake. The shuddering travels through his body, his hands start to tremble where they’re resting on Dean’s thighs. He laughs, stuttering, breathless. Dean looks vaguely afraid, worried, and Sam can tell he thinks he’s just done the most awful thing in the world.

”God, Dean.” Is all he can manage before he kisses him again.

Dean tilts his head, “I’m that good?”

Sam can’t help himself, relief floods through him, and he laughs and nearly cries. Head bent forwards into Dean’s shoulder which smells of dirt and leather and faintly soapy and Dean holds him stiffly, unsure of what to do.

I love you, you idiot, Sam wants to say, but the only bit that comes out is “you idiot.” And then “you scare the shit out of me, you know?” and Sam kisses him again, brings his hands up and curls them in Dean’s hair. He’s vaguely aware of how girly that is but he can’t bring himself to care, because Dean is alive and kissing him and god, that is all he ever wants because _this_. This passionate, idiot brother of his is all he’ll ever need.

-

Dean is in bed already, sheets bunched around his waist, when Sam comes in. He leans against the doorway, running a hand through his hair and watching Dean, waiting. Dean sees him, seems to hesitate a moment but then he’s shifted over slightly and he holds open the covers. Sam realises he’s been holding his breath as he exhales and moves towards his brother. He slips into bed beside him, dropping his head on Dean’s chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. 

He opens his mouth, wants to tell Dean – well he doesn’t know what, but _something_. Thanks for letting me in again, thanks for being my brother, thank-you, thank-you, _thank-you_. But Dean says “Not a word. Go to sleep.”

And Sam closes his eyes, grateful and hoping Dean knows just how much he saves him every day.


End file.
